


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by BarettaVendetta



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Everton F.C., Liverpool F.C., M/M, Merseyside Derby, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21681307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarettaVendetta/pseuds/BarettaVendetta
Summary: A short story about the 2019 Merseyside Derby, inspired by Tom Jones and Cerys Matthews' version of 'Baby, It's Cold Outside'. Jürgen Klopp is the wolf, and Marco Silva the sacrificial lamb.
Relationships: Jürgen Klopp/Marco Silva
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Baby, It's Cold Outside

Jürgen Klopp was in a festive mood. Christmas was only a few weeks off, Liverpool were cruising at the top of the league, and they had destroyed Everton 5-2, with Mohamed Salah - who had last been seen having a rather earnest conversation with Dejan Lovren - not even needing to come off the bench. _God is in His Heaven_ , he thought, _and all's right with the world_. There was the press conference and the happy Liverpool players and the Sky Sports staff and the mascots to attend to, and then there was that great English managerial custom: the post-match drink. He'd brought in a Portuguese wine for this occasion; he was more of a beer man himself, but Portuguese managers always seemed to be wine people, and as far as he knew, Silva wasn't teetotal like Martinez had been. It was sitting on the round table in his office, waiting for the two managers to share it.

Marco Silva had anticipated he would be coming. He stood in the manager's office, hands in his coat pockets, head down. There were dark shadows under his red-rimmed eyes and he clearly hadn't shaved for a few days. Klopp was a kindly man at heart, and the sight of such a downtrodden manager saddened him. He'd enjoyed getting Ronald Koeman drunk, bending him over the desk and fucking him - the arrogant fat bastard deserved it - getting drunk off his tits with Sam Allardyce, and making Roberto Martinez his bitch, it was well known back then that Martinez was one of the most submissive managers in the Premier League and enjoyed being treated like a fuck toy by more powerful managers, but doing anything of the kind to Silva would be like kicking a puppy. Indeed, Silva reminded Klopp of a small frightened animal. Klopp came from the land of fairy tales, of scared children lost in forests and big bad wolves, and right now, he was beginning to feel like a big bad wolf. 

"Good evening, Jürgen," said Silva morosely, "and congratulations on your victory. It was well deserved. I wish my squad had the ability yours do." He held out a hand for Klopp to shake.

"Ach," Klopp exclaimed, "your hands! They're freezing!" He took the other manager's hands in his own and massaged them. For the first time that evening, Silva smiled, though sadly. "This English climate," he said, "I have lived here for a few years now and I still get cold. You Germans, you must be used to it."

"You know what else'll warm you up?" Klopp said, and filled two glasses. He passed one to Silva. Silva tentatively held the stem, as though he feared it might explode in his hand.

" _Prost_ ," said Klopp, raising his glass, and drank it in one go. Silva took a couple of tentative sips. Klopp watched him expectantly. Silva gingerly knocked his drink back, made a face, and looked at his watch.

"I do feel a bit warmer now," he admitted. "Thank you." He looked at his watch again.

"What's your hurry?" Klopp asked. "You don't have far to go, surely? Unless you're planning on flying back to Portugal." He laughed. Silva did not join in. He cradled his glass in his hands, looking as though he were not quite sure what to do with it. He looked sad and confused and lost. Klopp sat down and pulled out his e-cigarette, and motioned for Silva to join him.

"I really should not..." Silva began, but his voice broke off. He sat down heavily in one of the chairs around the table.

Klopp offered Silva his e-cigarette and asked, "Smoke?" To his surprise, Silva accepted it and took a deep drag on the e-cigarette. He shut his eyes and blew out a long stream of smoke.

"I didn't know you smoked," said Klopp. "Me, I'm trying to cut down."

"Usually I do not," replied Silva, "but tonight..." He sighed. "A man who is going to be executed is allowed one last meal or whatever, you know? And that is how I feel right now." He glanced warily at his opponent and stood up. "I should be getting back. The lads will be wondering where I am." 

"To hell with them," Klopp said, and laughed.

Silva hesitated. "People will be asking questions," he said. "They will talk...they are already talking about me, about my future at Everton. They will wonder where I have gone."

"To hell with them," Klopp repeated. He swung his feet up onto the desk and looked Silva in the eye. "Come on," he cajoled, "you have nothing to lose. Have another bevvy, as they say here."

Silva's gaze faltered. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

Then he smiled, for real, and Klopp thought that it was one of the most adorable things he had ever seen. The little Portuguese manager's face seemed to light up. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the knowledge that he was going to be sacked tomorrow. There was certainly more colour in his cheeks and crow's feet appeared at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. _Those Everton bastards,_ Klopp thought. _How can they not want to protect that smile? Do they not care that their manager is about to get sacked?_

"Ah, fuck it," Silva said, taking off his coat. "I will have another drink." He sat down next to Klopp. Klopp slipped an arm around Silva's shoulders, and Silva sighed contently and laid his head against his opponent's chest.

Derby Day was going to get even better.


End file.
